10: Below The Surface
by Math Girl
Summary: Follow-up to "Fallout". After returning from the rescue in Persia, the family faces trouble from an unexpected direction. (Alternate universe, but feedback is welcomed and appreciated!)
1. Default Chapter

**Below the Surface**

1

Gennine was in Grandma Tracy's sitting room, curled up like a tabby on a soft armchair, her latest manuscript in hand. She was reading to the old lady from chapter 12 of _'Soft Possession' _, her newest romance novel. (Quite unbeknownst to Alan, Gennine had found modest success as a writer, under the pseudonym "Veronica Locksley"; garbage, most of it, but bored and lonely housewives ate it up, and Gennine was actually rather proud of herself.)

Victoria Tracy listened as she sat in the worn old rocker that Grant hadmade so long ago, and in which she'd hushed and comforted four very different boys. She was working on a cross-stitched sign for the upstairs bathroom, using silk thread of vivid blues and greens: _"If you sprinkle when you tinkle, be a sweetie, and wipe the seatie." _A useful proverb, in a house filled with men.

Cindy had popped in briefly, but couldn't sit still with Scott away on a dangerous mission. Giving the two former wives a nervous smile, she'd gone off to wait in the control room with Brains. So, now it was just the two of them.

The muted television flickered away in one corner, self absorbed as a mental patient. Gennine had just reached the good part (Violetta was about to reveal her secret identity and undying passion to Hunter Trace), when Alan burst into the room, a scowl on his soft, round face. That her son was angry was obvious; he'd come straight from his morning shower, having forgotten even to gel his blond hair..., and why wasn't much of a secret, either. Setting down the half-finished novel, Gennine composed herself for battle.

"Mom! You _gotta_ let...!"

"_Alan Tracy!"_ Grandma cut in sharply, leaning forward, cross stitch abandoned in her lap, brown eyes snapping like firecrackers. "You weren't born in a barn, nor raised by wolves! Is that how you talk to your mother, young man?"

Alan flushed. Head down, he kicked at the flowered carpet, muttering,

"No, Ma'am, Grandma... I'm sorry Ma'am."

Gennine sighed, pushing a blue plastic bandeau further back through her smooth, gilt hair. Sometimes, it seemed as though absolutely _everyone_ had greater control over her son than she did. But, why? She'd read all the childcare books...!

"Alan," she began, modeling what she hoped was a calm and respectful tone. "I know why you're here, and while it's perfectly understandable that, as a growing young man, you'd want to join your brothers, I believe that at fourteen you're still a bit young to be risking your life on a daily basis... Wait, Alan! Hear me out, _please...?" _

She took a deep, steadying breath, mentally savaging Jeff for placing her in this awful position.

"I can't control what Gordon does, or the others, either. They're... not my sons."

This last was said a bit thickly. After all these years... the hope and joy of marriage, the disappointment and failure of divorce... that most primal of rejections still hurt tremendously. Gordon had grown fond of her, though (after an initial boyish crush), and that was something. But she mustn't lose focus, Gennine reminded herself, arrowing back to her point.

"...But you _are_ mine, and it's my job to see to it that you live long enough to start making your own decisions. Smart and safe ones! _Sixteen years old, Alan._ That's the bottom line."

She'd have sounded a good deal more impressive if she could have kept the quiver out of her voice. It was painful, refusing her only child the one thing he wanted most in the world. She felt like an utter and complete failure.

Breathing hard, fists clenched, Alan started to rage and yell. He excelled at throwing tantrums. Always had. They weren't alone, though, and that colored his thinking, clearing the emotional fog to suggest an alternate strategy. Instead of going to pieces, he appealed to a higher authority. Lower lip out and trembling, Alan whirled to face Victoria Tracy.

"Grandma, please...? You understand, don't you? Can't you talk to her? I mean...," He ran a shaking hand through his hair, in a gesture startlingly similar to Jeff's. "...They're my _brothers. _Gordon and them are out there, maybe fighting for their lives, and maybe they need just _one more guy_ to help out, only they don't have him... and... well, what if something went wrong, and I wasn't there to help?"

He spread his hands, pleading with the old woman.

"Grandma... I don't know what I'd do, if something happened and I was stuck back here, smart and safe and helpless! Please, Grandma, _tell her!"_

The silver-haired lady glanced over at Gennine, who was alarmingly close to tears herself. Folding her knobby white hands in her lap, Victoria said,

"Child, I ain't one to stick my nose in anyone else's business. I ain't lived to be eighty years old by messin' where I don't got leave to be. But... I'll say this much; you can shelter someone, and worry yourself cross-eyed and half-witted, and have 'em run off screaming like a snipped piglet, just as soon's they're old enough to bolt. And then, outta sheer cussedness, they'll try _each and every _damfool thing you warned 'em not to, just because it was you that said it."

She laced her fingers, dark eyes behind their spectacles moist and sad.

"You could take care of someone, thinkin' you was doing the best in the world by 'em, and have 'em carried off after fifty-two years together. And, Jenny-Girl, it hurts just as bad as if it happened two days after you said your 'I do's. Believe me, I know."

The old woman cocked her head to one side, adding,

"That's a voice I'll never hear again, till the Lord sees fit to call me home... But I keep listening for him to come in, stomping snow off his boots 'n hollering for coffee."

Victoria seemed to give herself a little shake, as she pulled free of longing and sorrow.

"Tell you a story, Jenny. There was a little boy, Billy Hardy, as fell into an old cistern catchment drain. Three years old, he was. This was back awhile ago. Let's see..., April of 2054, I believe it was, on the spread next to ours. Anyways..., playin' outside, he fell into this narrow little bore hole, and got stuck. Everyone come from a hundred miles around, just as fast as they could scurry, to help get him out. Grant went, and Scotty, Teddy, and John. I was there, too, to help feed the crowd and care for Mary Hardy's other little 'uns, as she was busy talkin' down the hole, keeping Billy awake. Well, they dug a slanting kinda tunnel just under where Billy was. Used that remote borer thing. Teddy was best at guiding the balky contraption, so he set up the board and run it, while Scotty and Jake Ross hauled-ass to the cistern mouth, meaning to get down in there and catch the little fellow,if he fell through. Diggin' had to go slow, so's not to collapse the tunnel, nor shake the baby loose, and when they finally broke through, the only one skinny and flexible enough to wriggle along that worm hole and reach up the drain for Billy... was John."

Victoria shook her head fiercely, her mouth a grim, tight line.

"I tell you right now, Jenny-Girl, I didn't like it one bit. I could see in my mind's eye that tunnel collapsin' and burying 'em both alive. But I just told him to mind the harness didn't catch on anythin', and sent him on in."

She gave Gennine a long glance of pity and understanding.

"It runs in the family, Girl. Through all of us. If I'd been a little younger, I'd 've gone in myself. I'm small enough. Anyways, they made it back alive, both of 'em; dirty, scratched up and cold, but safe. Thing is, John was fourteen, too. Grant asked my permission, like Jeffery asked yours, and it about tore me up to give it... but Billy and his folks needed us, so I did. Didn't make no fuss, neither. Didn't want to embarrass the boy. But, there; you're his mother, and can't nobody make that decision but you."

Gennine bit her lip, glancing from Grandma Tracy to Alan's hopeful face. Tears began slipping from her wide blue eyes. Then, slowly, she nodded her head.

Alan whooped aloud, leapt three feet into the air, kissed his mother and grandma, and ran from the room, shouting,

"_She... said... yes!"_


	2. Chapter 2: First Move

**2**

The ecstatic boy had made a brief trip to his father's office, but Jeff was far too busy monitoring his returning older sons to pay much attention. A brief nod and grunt were all Alan got from his preoccupied father.

Fine, then! There were _other _people on the island, specifically...

He spotted TinTin sitting out on an old hammock by the lower pool, staring out to sea. The lovely girl looked quiet and distracted. Obviously, she needed cheering up, by none other than _'the one and only...,_ _get him while he's hot..., Alan Tracy! Line forms on the right, Ladies.'_

Loping across the sun-spattered pool deck, Alan threw himself onto the woven hammock beside her, setting the thing to swaying, and nearly pitching her to the ground. He got it steadied again as tropical birds squawked off through the big old trees, then gave her a wide _'Here I am'_ grin.

TinTin's large, dark eyes were full of something he entirely failed to notice, being too brimfull of his own tidings to relax and pay attention.

"TinTin, guess what!" Alan began, a little breathlessly, "Mom caved! I went to have it out with her about keeping me back from rescues, and she wouldn't budge at first, but then grandma gave her this slick line about John, and she folded like a card house! It was _great! _I'm in!"

Eager to receive her praise and congratulations, Alan paused.

TinTin had been sitting, keeping her guard up, carefully thinking about nothing much beyond the ocean's pounding turmoil. Some part of her, deep down and shrinking, knew it was only a matter of time before the Hood shook off his feigned coma and came back for her. Already, she couldn't so much as speak to deliver a warning. What was next? What might he require her to do? Very much needing a friend, and halfway comprehending Alan's good news, TinTin managed a crooked little smile.

"That's... wonderful, Alan. You must be so pleased."

His grin broadened further, and his slim shoulders went back. Voice deepening just a touch, he said,

"I knew she'd give in. The ol' Alan Tracy charm never fails! 'Course, I'll probably be busy now, what with saving the world and all, but I'm sure I'll still have time to... you know..., talk and stuff, when I'm not doing something important."

Still rather distracted, TinTin nodded and patted the boy's hand. She had the terrible feeling that by staying here she was putting her dearest friends in danger. Yet, where else was she to go? Mr. Tracy had declared that no one was to leave the island, except on rescue missions, until Thunderbird 5 was back in service, and the General neutralized. Worse... she couldn't reveal what had happened, how International Rescue now had a silent puppet in their midst, awaiting only its master's call to spring to deadly life.

Looking at the girl, Alan saw soft, shadowed eyes, an almost translucent pallor, and some sort of yearning need. Being fourteen, and fairly sloshing with hormones, he misinterpreted her look and gentle pat rather badly. All of a sudden, heart hammering, he leaned forward and tried to kiss her. The hammock rocked backward, though, hurling him against the girl with unexpected force. His forehead struck her nose, nearly breaking it.

Startled, blood beginning to spatter her flowered halter-top, TinTin leapt off the hammock, which then tipped, dumping her would-be suitor flat on his rump.

"Alan!" She half scolded, half laughed, clamping a hand to her streaming nose, "you _idiot!"_

Poor Alan flushed scarlet to the roots of his golden hair. Surging to his feet, the boy gave her one miserable, humiliated look, then ran away down the shaded path, pursued by imaginary laughter.

"Alan!" TinTin called after him, as well as she could with a throbbing, bloody nose, _"Come back! Je m' excuse! I'm sorry!"_


	3. Chapter 3: Sea Wall

**3**

On reaching Tracy Island, Scott headed to the infirmary, where Brains had set up to treat four raging cases of radiation sickness. John, Virgil and Gordon were to follow directly, as soon as Thunderbird 2 had rumbled back into her hangar. Scott had insisted on delaying his own arrival, deliberately cutting his airspeed to escort the big cargo lifter, and his younger brothers, home. They'd already lost Thunderbird 5, and would have lost 2, as well, but for a hefty portion of luck. Scott wasn't taking any chances with what he had left. Only when the bigger bird was in, and his brothers safely home, did their field commander land and seek out treatment.

John followed almost immediately, too sick to accomplish anything further in Thunderbird 2. Gordon saw him out of the hangar and halfway to the infirmary, meaning, _genuinely intending, _to follow orders and get treated, himself. Only... something happened.

The closer they got to the lab, the tighter and icier the feeling in his chest got, and the louder the buzzing in his head. Everything went sort of blank, and the next thing he knew, he was at the shore, knee deep in warm, surging seawater. Still in uniform, which he vaguely recalled hearing John say something about disposing of... but holding a pair of damp swim trunks. Not his own. He never wore the baggy, drawstring sort.

He looked blankly down at the neon, shark-print shorts, then back up at the mansion. How...?

'_Must've snagged them off the drying rack on my way down...' _He though worriedly, _'but how could I do all that and not know it?'_

Just tired, maybe; figuratively asleep at the wheel. It _had _been a long two days.

'_Ought to get back up there, but...' _He supposed the pills and prodding could wait a bit, until he'd had a bracing swim, at least.

That decided, Gordon pulled his belt and wet boots off, tossing them onto the strand. The shirt and tee-shirt followed shortly, but he waded out far enough not to shock anyone but the fish to remove the rest, then changed into Alan's over-loud swim trunks.

Moments later, clothing, weapons, boots and belt were neatly stacked on the black sand beach, out of harm's way, and he was free to go. Gordon plunged into the relatively gentle surf and swam out to the sea wall, beyond which the ocean was a good deal wilder.

Made of immense blocks of lava rock, with the odd bit of construction junk and coral thrown in, the wall spanned most of the distance between the island's twin, jutting promontories. An opening, just wide enough to admit a modest yacht, and deep enough to permit the secret movements of a small sub, was currently blocked up with a great net of linked chains. Always wise to prepare for company, he supposed.

There were holes in the rusty-black lava blocks; former gas bubbles. Someone had placed things in many of the most sheltered. Bright shells and bits of colored beach glass; that sort of thing. There was even a gold religious medal. Saint Christopher. Rather nice, Gordon reflected, clinging to the wall with one hand. Bit strange, though. Why would someone go to all that trouble?

None of the objects would be visible from the top of the seawall, had someone walked along it... nor from the shore, either. Too far.

Only from the water, lifted and dropped as he was now by one gentle swell after another, could the small treasures be seen. A lot of work for something so private, but maybe that was exactly the point. Maybe it wasn't meant to be shared, or explained, or even finished (though he thought the far side of the opening looked a bit austere), just worked on; forever, if necessary.

As seabirds wheeled and called overhead, and the sun traced his silent arc across the sky, Gordon moved a few of the objects around. Then he began diving for more, daring beyond the chains, even, to the wild, swirling waters beyond.

It was the headache that drove him ashore, finally, where someone was waiting.


	4. Chapter 4: Darkness

**4**

TinTin lifted a hand when Gordon was about waist deep, calling out, with some asperity,

"Are you wearing anything?" The piled clothing at her sandaled feet seemed to indicate otherwise.

Gordon nodded. Those sloppy-slow, draggy trunks of Alan's reminded him constantly that he was, in fact, dressed; and how anyone was expected to really _swim _in the things was quite past him.

"D' accord," TinTin responded. "But I brought you a towel, just in case."

Though, as a swimmer, he had a traffic-stopping figure (warped by the demands of his sport; muscular arms, broad chest and shoulders tapering to narrow waist and overdeveloped legs), Gordon's boisterous foolishness kept one from taking him quite seriously. Usually.

"Thanks, Angel. Not got any aspirin about, have you?"

"Mm-hmm," she responded seriously,"Part of the well-stocked, brand new, TinTin Kyrano emergency surgery kit; _never_ leave home without it. Especially around here."

Gordon waded to shore, accepted towel and tablets with a murmured word of thanks and a quick kiss to her forehead. He wasn't feeling well, the sudden drag of landward gravity hitting him much harder than usual, the headache burgeoning into a three-alarm migraine.

He poured four of the powerful tablets into the palm of his left hand, tossed them back and swallowed them dry, wincing at the taste.

TinTin waited while he toweled off, then said, without preamble,

"Alan tried to kiss me today, by the pool."

Gordon paused, listened closely, but said nothing. The girl went on, looking troubled.

"He bumped my nose, and it started to bleed. It hurt, and..., well..., surprised me."

Hazel eyes locked on the ground, dark green monogrammed towel draped around his neck, Gordon said,

"Why 're you tellin' me this?"

She hugged herself suddenly, against a wind off the ocean that lifted her black hair and plastered the lavender blouse to her slim curves.

"I... laughed at him, Gordon, and he ran from me. I called tohim, but he wouldn't return. Maybe you could talk with him? Tell him for me that I'm sorry, and that I didn't really mean to laugh?"

"I could do that," he assented quietly, still looking down at the sand.

"Would _you_ bump my nose, if you tried kissing me?" TinTin speculated. She knew, having seen first-hand, how he felt about her... and couldn't help wondering, just a little.

For a moment, Gordon considered the notion, imagining that she'd smell like suntan lotion, taste of bubble gum, and that, pressed against him, she'd fit tight and warm and close. But,

"Best not. Probably just finish the job, or somethin'." He replied, almost managing to sound normal. She mattered far too much for such casual exploration. If something started to happen, then stopped... Well, he knew women; _'we can still be friends' _never worked out. He continued, gruffly, "You'd wind up with a nose like mine, or worse."

And he smiled a little, putting a hand to the poorly healed break on the bridge of his own nose. Then, resolutely, Gordon folded his arms across his chest, once again keeping matters to himself.

TinTin started to reply, but something happened that scared her literally speechless. A sense of cold power (left behind by the Hood, perhaps) rose up in her, all at once. She could take whatever... whoever... she wanted, and no one had the right, or ability, to protest. Not Papa, or Jeff Tracy... _no one_. For just an instant, the world looked very different to TinTin, the good-hearted young man before her nothing but a tool to be used till broken, then cast aside and replaced with another. Horrified, TinTin shoved the terrible notion aside and reasserted herself, driving darkness back into its slimy crevice. Smiling blankly, she gave him a swift, jerky nod.

"Well, then..., that's settled!" Her tone a little desperate, her words rapid and forced. She had to get away. _Now. _"I'll see you in a few minutes, Gordon. At dinner. See you at dinner!"

Then, doubling like a hare, TinTin fled across the strand and back up the beach stairs.

Gordon watched her go, feeling somehow extinguished. He had the dreadful impression that he'd hurt her somehow, despite all his good intentions..., and _damn_, that headache was fierce!

Alan emerged to join his older brother, once TinTin was well away. He'd watched from hiding, in an agony of worry lest the two of them should start laughing together. But Gordon sent her packing, then just stood there, rubbing at his temples like he had another headache. Alan scowled. If only he knew what they'd been talking about...

After a long, fretful pause, he counted to three, took a deep breath and started across the sand. If Gordon was against him now, too, he might as well find out.

"Hey, Bro. What's up?" Almost whispering, hands fisted tightly in his shorts pockets. "Why aren't you at the infirmary?"

He braced himself for the worst, but his brother's smile was the same as ever; friendly, a little wider on one side than the other.

"Not much. Damn head's about t' crack, and I feel like chumming over the seawall, but I'll do. Yourself?"

More confident now, Alan returned the smile.

"Ah," he shrugged, "the usual. You know, zits, girls, family togetherness... life in hell. But, uh... Mom changed her mind. Grandma convinced her. I can go on rescues, now, if they're not, like, suicide missions."

Gordon clapped a hand to his shoulder. They set off along the black, wave-laced sand, aimlessly following the beach.

"Finally! I knew she'd let y' go sooner or later. She loves you, but your mum's no coward, for all of that."

"Yeah... she's okay. Sometimes. Did, um..., did I see TinTin talking to you, just now?"

Gordon looked over, curious.

"You did. She said dinner was near ready, up at the house, and... she asked me to tell you she's sorry. But," he lied, to drive away his brother's hot-faced shame, "she'd not tell me why. Girls, for you."

Alan breathed again. Gordon _didn't _know. TinTin _hadn't_ told him.

"Well, you're pretty good with them, aren't you? I mean, they sure keep emailing their pictures, and some of them are pretty hot."

Gordon thought, _'They do?'_ Must have forgotten that part, somehow. Funnily enough, he recalled mostly the awkward mistakes. No need to admit that to his brother, though.

"Magnetic personality, that's me,"Gordon responded lightly.

Alan snorted. "It's the medals, Dude," he teased, "Cause it sure isn't looks or charm...!"

Hedidn't quite evade Gordon's playful shove, wound up sprawled on his back in the hot sand. Ordinarilly, a spirited wrestling match would have ensued, but this time, Gordon simply helped his brother back up, and started walking again.

He didn't have the energy to do much but trudge mechanically along. Alan never noticed. Instead, the baby-faced blond began venting, getting things off his chest that he wouldn't have dreamed of telling anyone else. The brothers had reached the rocky north promontory by this time, had to scramble over boulders of gritty lava to continue their walk.

"Anyway, I... _hey! _Gordon, you okay? You don't look so good."

His ashen-pale brother had staggered a bit as they reached the narrow base of their favorite diving cliff.

"I'm fine..." Gordon replied, waving Alan off. "Jus'... just tired, is all."

_"Uh-uh,_ Dude. That's not tired, that's sick. We need to get you to the lab, right..."

"_No!"_ Gordon snapped, his vehemence startling the hell out of Alan. "No lab, no doctors. I'll be fine, dammit, just... give me a minute!"

Concerned, Alan helped him to sit on thedark sand, saying,

"Put your head down. Okay, listen: I'll be back in a second, man. Don't go anywhere until then, promise?"

Gordon managed to nod, then rested his throbbing forehead against up-drawn knees and concentrated on breathing through his mouth. Alan took off somewhere, though Gordon was too weak to pay much attention. Finally, even sitting became such a terrible, draining effort that he curled up on the ground, shivering cold despite the strong, westering sun. He'd have dragged himself into the water if he'd had the strength, but at least the rhythmic, booming crash, the steady hiss, was nearby.

'_Stupid chocolate,' _he thought blurrily, unfairly blaming the energy bars. Then, he lost consciousness entirely.

"Gordon? Sweetie?" He heard a soft, worried voice, smelled flowery perfume. Gennine, he decided, after a moment of weary confusion. That was nice. He liked Alan's mum.

"Gordon, you have to get up, now. Alan and I will help you walk to the lab. Jeff and Brains are on their way, but we ought to save time and meet them. It's getting dark out here."

Lab? Hospital room and needles? With effort akin to the 400 meter individual medley, Gordon lifted his head. Pushing a little further, he managed to open his eyes.

"No. Not going... leave me alone."

Gennine glanced up at her son, confused, but Alan just shook his head. His older brother and best friend was delirious, or something, because he was far too strong to be afraid of _anything. _Not Gordon. His mother didn't seem to get it, though, coming up with some stupid baby-comfort junk.

"Gordon," she said, stroking his auburn hair, "you'll be fine. I'll be right there, and so will Alan, and your father. I know you don't want to go, but you won't get better if you don't. I'll be right there, the whole time."

He didn't respond directly, but allowed Alan and his mother to haul him upright. Together, they headed back along the beach, Gordon maintaining a slow, dragging walk until Jeff came hurtling over the promontory. Brains, wheezing and coughing, was close behind, an anti-gravity stretcher in tow.

The bone-thin scientist had abandoned his lab coat; wearing a blue cardigan and ill-fitting contact lenses, instead. He couldn't be effective if Gordon wouldn't let him near. Possibly a change of appearance might help things along, Brains had thought. Virgil was still in detox with John and Scott, and quite unable to help. Keeping behind Jeff, the engineer approached, doing his best to look harmless.

Gordon was terribly cold. He didn't want to leave the beach, or lose consciousness around others, but the world slanted and spun, anyway, ringed by worried faces.


	5. Chapter 5: Possession

**5**

When he woke, he was back in a hospital bed, again. No straps, this time. He could leave. Someone was there, sitting in a chair beside him with a notebook in hand, leafing through its penciled contents with evident interest.

"Spare me the look," TinTin fussed crossly, as he turned his head. "Gennine had to have at least a _few_ hours rest, so she asked me to sit with you, for a time." She set down the notebook, first dog-earing the page for later perusal. "And it was just getting good, too! Now, I suppose I'll have to keep you company. _What are you doing?_ Gordon Tracy, are you mad?"

For, he'd risen to a sitting position and drawn the sheet around himself like a towel, yanking the IV tube out with savage distaste.

"Goin' to my room, if you don't mind," Gordon snapped back, bracing himself to get all the way up.

Haloed in the faint glow of her reading lamp, TinTin gaped at his preparations, while all around, the quiet breathing of his older brothers (and Cindy, who'd insisted on staying by Scott) whispered softly of healing and rest.

"But you can't even walk!" the girl protested.

"Then I'll crawl."

"You're serious..!"

He leveled a grim stare at the bewildered girl.

"As a damn funeral Mass. Now, get out of m' way."

Unwilling to allow even the thought of controlling his actions to cross her mind, TinTin went along.

"Very well, then, Stupid. I'll help you get there, if you promise to rest."

More relieved than he cared to admit, Gordon accepted the girl's assistance. As TinTin supported his shambling walk across the mansion and up the main stairs, Gordon said, a bit hesitantly,

"I'm sorry..., if I said somethin' wrong, back at the beach."

She gave a little shrug, quite a chore with a heavy arm across her shoulders.

"Don't give it a thought, Mon Couer. (Like you would, anyway!) You and Alan are just alike; idiots, both of you. But I suffer for the good of all womankind, keeping the two of you out of circulation."

Gordon laughed, glad she wasn't really angry with him. They'd stopped to rest on the third landing, so he wasted a little more breath saying,

"Thanks, Angel. Very noble of you, I'm sure."

"Tais-toi!"

She gave his sheet-wrapped waist a squeeze, maintaining a martyred expression. For an instant, she thought of the Olympics, but he'd been exhausted then, not radiation sick.

They made it to Gordon's untidy rooms at last. None too soon, either, from the look of things. He'd grown so pale and clammy that she began to wonder whether helping him out of the infirmary had been such a good idea.

Maneuvering past all the furniture, the ladder and exercise equipment that cluttered his sitting room, TinTin got him at last to bed. Then, assuming a tone and lofty hauteur somewhere between Lady Penelope and her father, TinTin said,

"And will there be anything _else, _Monsieur?"

"No," he replied, smiling sleepily, "Just your company, if y' don't mind staying a bit longer."

"I suppose... If I must, I must. No release for the weary and oppressed tonight," she sighed, gazing at the ceiling in feigned disgust. No chair being nearby, she sat down on the night stand. Had to move a framed picture first, though. No one she knew...

A laughing, sandy-haired man with hazel eyes and a _very_ freckled face embraced a red-haired young woman, whose adoring green eyes looked up, not at the camera, but at him. Her love was gut-punch palpable, even through the years and the glass.

"Who are they?" TinTin asked curiously, holding the faded picture out to Gordon. He took it from her.

"Sorry. Shouldn't have it out, like that. The other night was really odd. Um...," For she was beginning to look quiet again, and he didn't want to chase away her suddenly lightened mood. "It's mum an' dad. Before I was born. Mum always used t' say...," and he turned the photo back to face her again, "that though you can't see me, I'm in the picture. She said she was a month along, when it was taken. Funny..." He frowned down at the snapshot. "...I know it was just a story she told, so I'd not be left out... but I still feel like I'm in the picture."

"Well," TinTin floundered, as he shut the portrait away in the other night stand. "I guess you are, then. Families are what you make of them, n'est-ce pas?"

"TinTin, I don' speak bloody French." Gordon was well under the covers now, and growing drowsy.

"I hate to be the one to bring the matter up, Mon Couer, but you aren't a scholar of English, either. Your diction is laughable. E-nun-ci-ate."

"Right, then... speech lessons start up tomorrow..." And he fell asleep, smiling slightly.

Thinking it better to stay with a friend than brave the long, dark walk to her own room, TinTin found a chair and dragged it over to Gordon's bed. She'd promised to watch him, after all. It was later, when the house was sleepy-silent, and her tired mind unguarded, that the presence struck again. Gasping, TinTin shot fully upright, reaching desperately for her sleeping companion.

'_Wake him, and he dies. You will strangle him with your own hands, Little One, while I hold him helpless. But I am compassionate, Child, and require but one life this night. Rise, seek out 'John' , and kill him.'_


End file.
